


Aftershocks

by 7slash20



Category: Highlander RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-29
Updated: 2016-06-29
Packaged: 2018-07-19 00:20:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7337020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/7slash20/pseuds/7slash20
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The shooting of "The Source" has a devastating effect on Peter. Jim is there to pick him up and put him back together again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Aftershocks

**Author's Note:**

> I found some old stories on my hard drive; maybe some of you have a s much fun as I had re-discovering them.  
> Be warned: I'm not a native speaker and the stories are not beta-ed. Read at own risk!  
> (Dimeth is the name I used for my Highlander stuff, just in case you wondered...)

Aftershocks

 

The day

„What are you listening to?” Peter asked.

Jim was sitting at one of the tables in the breakfast room of their hotel, his journal open in front of him, staring into space.  
“Huh?” Jim came out of his stupor quite fast, closed his private journal and looked up at Peter.

“You mind?” Peter gestured at the table, which was obviously too small for two people having breakfast.

“Course,” Jim said, putting his journal on his thighs, and shuffled around with empty plates, juice glass and coffee cup.

Peter sat down and looked at Jim.  
‘It has been too damn long,’ he thought, looking at the silver bangs on Jim’s forehead. It took most of his self-control not to reach over and brush them back.  
“You’ve been writing,” he said, recognizing the slightly breathless voice he always had when he said things he only said in favour of not saying the things he wanted to say. “New lyrics?”

“No,” Jim answered, not meeting his eye, “just some stuff that went through my mind.”

“Uhm,” Peter made non-committally, studying Jim’s face. “Something… bothering you?”

Jim shook his head. “Just some stupid old man stuff.”

“You’re not.” Peter said quietly, smiling, when Jim’s eyes met his.

“Stupid or old?”

“Neither nor.” Under the table Peter groped for Jim’s hand and gave it a soft squeeze. It felt as expected: Warm and big and strong.  
Surprise whisked over Jim’s face and was quickly replaced by a questioning look.  
Peter’s heart sank. He squeezed the broad hand one last time, then let go.

“You like another coffee?” He got up, almost toppling over his chair. His ears felt as if on fire and probably they were just as red.  
He took much longer than necessary to fill two cups with coffee. Returning to their table –has a nice ring to it, he thought- he felt reasonably collected.

“You worried about something?” Jim asked, almost casually, taking a sip.

“Why would I? You’re the one who’s going to die today.”  
The tone had been casual, just a silly remark, but when he raised his eyes to look at Jim, seeing how pale and pinched his face suddenly was, he felt sorry. Really sorry for the cruelty of carelessness.

“Right.” Jim said quietly. “Although I’d like to stress the fact that Joe will die today, hopefully not me.” Jim pushed himself up, shoving back his chair. “See you, Pete.”

“Jim, wait. I didn’t-”

But Jim kept on walking, not looking back, leaving him behind in his misery. 

 

Afterwards

Jim leaned heavily against the frame of the bathroom door, nursing a scotch from the minibar.  
The sounds coming from the adjacent room, though muffled by the separating wall, were disturbing.  
The next room down the aisle was Pete’s.

Jim took another sip from his glass.

The sound was unmistakable, but Jim had no idea what to make of it. Peter was crying. No doubt about that.  
Still, what could he do?  
He wanted to go over, knock the door down and hold Pete. Just hold him until the worst would be over – whatever it was, wherever it came from.

And that was the one thing he had learned the hard way over the years: it was impossible.  
He was not Joe.  
Pete wasn’t Methos.  
Things weren’t that easy.

Jim finished the last of his scotch, switched off the bathroom light and went to the small desk. He would write it down. Just for relief.

 

The day after

Peter heard the low knock on the door of his room, but he didn’t answer.  
Just go away, he thought, taking a last drag of his cigarette. When he stubbed the butt out, the knocking started again, harder this time.

“Pete?”  
Jim.  
Damn, he should’ve known Jim would come for him.  
“Pete. Open up. I know you’re there.”

Peter knew it was pointless to drag this out. Jim wasn’t easily ignored.  
He opened the door, letting Jim step into the room.

Looking pointedly at the full ashtray and the line of empty bottles from the minibar, he chided softly, “Had a party?”

Dropping back into the armchair, Peter silently lit up another cigarette.

“You haven’t showed up for dinner last night.”

Peter shook his head minutely ‘no’ and kept his gaze firmly on the gray world outside the window.

"People missed you, you now."

It had started to rain. Not the warm Californian drizzle that rarely fell anyway where they lived now, but cold, big drops battering the window pane. He watched the drops as they formed little rivulets that made their way silently down the glass.

“Haven’t had breakfast either.”

“It’s still early.”

“It’s past two.”  
Jim moved into his line of vision, blocking the view of the water running down the window. “Wanna talk about it?”

“About what?” He still couldn’t look at Jim; if he would, the man might see right through his thin façade, right down to his core.  
And he probably wouldn’t be – what? What would Jim think when he’d find out what Peter’s problem was these days?

“Is Carolyn okay?”

When Peter didn’t answer, because, _honestly, what should he say?_ Jim pushed the second armchair alongside Peter’s and lowered himself carefully into it, resting his cane against the inside of his right thigh.

Jim knew already that what had started as a hot romance on the set of the series had burnt itself out. Not as fast as some had predicted, but had burnt down steadily, until just cold ashes remained. He and his wife lived together for Edan’s sake. _Just until he’s old enough to understand and to cope_ , Peter had promised himself.

Of course Jim knew. They had spent countless hours waiting together for make-up, for the next take, for the end of another night shoot. Talking. They hadn’t seen each other in quite some time, and after thirty minutes of meaningless small-talk on their first day together on the set, they had re-established their former bond.

_I feel like there’s a bond between us._ It had been an ad lib, it had felt right saying it to Joe and to Jim, and if the man’s smile was anything to go by, Jim had understood. 

And just like that, Peter was sure, even if he hadn’t told Jim the truth about his failing marriage number two, Jim would’ve known. There were always others spreading news.

The small impact of cigarette ashes falling on his thigh brought him acutely back from his reverie. He brushed it away impatiently, leaving a light gray smear on the dark jeans.

“Gimme that,” Jim said, pointing towards the forgotten cigarette. Peter watched Jim as he crushed it out.  
“Did you talk to her?”

“Last time before I went off to Lithuania.”  
Automatically, he reached for the pack of smokes, but found it empty. He crumbled it.  
“It’s not her fault, you know?” he said softly. From the corner of his eye, he saw Jim nod.

“Then what’s bothering you?”

_Nothing new. The same thing that’s bothering me ever since we met_ , Peter thought and kept staring out of the window. 

“Is it… yesterday’s shooting?” Jim soft probing turned Peter’s head.

“How-” _the hell did he know?_

“Well, you screwed that scene pretty often, given that you just had two words to deliver…”

Peter gave a single nod, looking at his hands. Yes, it had been embarrassing, but for a while it had seemed that he wouldn’t be able to say those two words. At first, he had said: ‘Oh, Jim,’ instead of ‘Oh, Joseph,’ and everybody had laughed, including Jim. But then, his throat and chest had been so tight, that he couldn’t get a single word out.  
“Do you think the others noticed?”  
Jim’s low chuckle made goosebumps rise on Peter’s arms. 

“Except Adrian… and me… well, yes, of course.”

“Thought so.”

Jim nudged his elbow gently. “Got it bad, hm.” No question. “I heard you… last night.”

_Damn._ Right, Jim’s bathroom was right next to his. _Great. Just great._

“Sounded so bad,” Jim continued in a hushed voice. “I was that close of coming over.”

“To do what exactly?” He sounded exasperated even in his own ears. And Jim’s expression told him, it hadn’t been his best idea to use Methos’ lines on him. “To wipe my nose?” he added in a gentler tone.

“If necessary. – You know, it wasn’t easy lying around seeing you screw take after take… I hadn’t expected…”

Peter looked at Jim when he let the sentence hang between them unfinished. _He looks tired. Strained. ___  
“I kept thinking, this is Methos’ last moment with Joe and still he can’t say…” Peter’s voice broke. He cleared his throat and started again, “…Joe will die without knowing…” He couldn’t go on.  
_That’s nuts_ , he chided himself silently, _it’s a bad case of character bleed, no more. No more. This has nothing to do with me. Or him. ___

Jim’s hand, warm and surprisingly light, came to rest on his.  
“Joe knew.”

“He couldn’t have known. Methos never said a word.”  
Peter pulled his hand free from the distracting contact and ran it through his stubbly hair.  
“Listen to us. What is this? What are we talking about?” he said, exasperated. “Character bleed, after all those years.” He laughed. It was the same hollow sound he had heard before when thinking about the impossibilities of his life.

Peter turned his gaze back to Jim and to his utter amazement, Jim wasn’t laughing at him. Not even smiling. The gray eyes were resting on his face as if waiting for something.

When Peter remained silent, he said hoarsely: “Don’t do that. Don’t sell it cheap.”  
With the usual difficulty, Jim got out of the armchair. “Gotta catch my flight.”  
When Peter still didn’t move, he huffed and slowly went to the door. The doorhandle already in hand, he said quietly: “Joe knew because I know.”  
Jim started when the door was pushed closed out of his grip.

“Jim, I…” Scrambling for words that wouldn’t come, Peter finally threw his arms around Jim’s solid form, holding on tight.  
He felt Jim’s left hand on his back, patting him and heard his husky ‘there, there’ and ‘it’s okay, got you’ murmurs.

His heart beat in his throat when he pulled back just enough to look into the gray eyes, looking for permission, for an invitation. He leaned in and softly touched his lips to Jim’s. He didn’t dare more, just this almost chaste contact. He felt Jim’s breath hot on his cheek, small bursts of moist air.  
But then, the lips against his moved, releasing a small groan, opening for his mouth to take command. It was not the kiss Peter had dared to imagine, nor the sort of kiss he hadn’t dared to fantasize about. But, admittedly, it came closer to the latter.

As if on his own accord, Peter’s hand came up and cupped the bearded cheek, as he had done about half a dozen times during the takes the day before. The bristles tickled his palm as Jim leaned into the touch without breaking the kiss.  
Time ticked by, uncounted until they were both out of breath. 

“Jim, I-”

“Shh,” Jim made, “I know.”

 

At night

Some time later, I wake up. Slowly, like drifting through cool water to the surface, where the light gets brighter.  
Outside, the rain must’ve stopped, since the constant tapping against the pane is gone. It’s almost dark and the red glow of the bedside clock reads 4:12 pm.

I must’ve dozed off about half an hour ago, holding Jim in a tight back to front hug against me.  
My hand brushes over the fur on his chest; I love the crisp curls as they tell me acutely whom I’m with. I never thought… _never dared to hope, actually_ , this could happen.  
I take a deep breath, heavy with unique Jim scent.

I feel my whole face lift in a smile and a chuckle rises through my chest like bubbles in a champagne glass.

Jim stirs slightly and mumbles, voice sleep-slurred: “Whaddya say?”

“Nothing, go back to sleep,” I murmur against the side of his face and let my lips brush his cheek.  
But then it all comes back to me. “Damn, you’ll miss you flight!”  
In an adrenaline-fuelled flash, I’m out of the bed and in my jeans. Light switch is next.  
“Jim, your plane.”

He rolls over onto his back and shades his eyes from the too bright light.

“Come on, I’ll call a cab for you!”  
When I pick up the receiver and try to remember the number for the front desk, he says quietly: “Put it back.”

“Huh?”  
I push the ‘0’ button, but nothing happens. Not the front desk, as it seems.

“Pete. Put the receiver back to the cradle.” His tone is still gentle, patient.

“But your flight?!” I’m confused, dial ‘1’ and after two rings, a man says something in a strange language. Lithuanian, I suppose.

Jim rolls over and terminates my attempt with an insistent forefinger.

“What did you do that for?” I think his plane leaves around seven. Before or after seven? Damn, I can’t remember.

“I’m not going to miss my flight,” he says. 

I do hear the words, but somehow I can’t grab the meaning. But since he’s obviously awake and in no hurry as it seems, I tend to take what he said for truth.  
“Huh?” I blurt out.

“I cancelled it.” A sheepish grin spreads on his face.

“Why?” I still don’t get it. “When?”

“After I heard you last night. I couldn’t just go.” He admits and looks like the boy I know he has been. “And when you didn’t show up for breakfast, well, I-” he shrugs slightly, “I cancelled the flight and prolongued my stay.”

“For how long?” I can’t be bothered with more than three words at a time, as it seems. I feel an odd bubble of something very much like happiness rise, but it doesn’t show in my voice.

“Three more nights…” he admits and looks even more sheepish than before.

I fold my arms in front of my naked chest, just for the effect. “That was pretty damn optimistic of you, don’t you think?”

“Aah, well, you see…” he starts and he makes that thing with his face and I can’t keep my act together anymore.

I start laughing, a slightly hysterical sound which erupts from a dark place deep inside me; laughing, I drop down next to him on the mattress. I laugh until I tumble over the edge and the tears start and he pulls me against his chest and holds me until I can stop crying. 

“I ain’t dead,” he murmurs, while he’s rocking me gently, and his callused fingertips ran over my bare back. “Just the part of me that was Joe Dawson is gone. But since Methos has vanished and can be presumed dead,” he lifts my chin and looks at me, “there’s no reason the two of us shouldn’t go on with our life.”

Life, he said, not lives.  
For the first time since I saw the script, there’s a glimmer of light at the end of the tunnel.  
I think it’s him with a torch, waving at me for directions, waiting for me to catch up on him.


End file.
